Far, far away from my heart
by MadeOfStars
Summary: The longest journey is the journey inward. Reflections, introspections and reactions post-Jacksonville...
1. 1016

Spoilers: through Jacksonville

All characters and settings (so far) belong to the world of Fringe

* * *

"The longest journey is the journey inward." Dag Hammarskjold

She said she had a freakishly good memory, and she did. She rambled through it on the flight back from Jacksonville, looking for any indicators that what happened happened, something to prove to her that she could not lose such a big part of her childhood, that she only misplaced it. She remembered being that blond headed girl, she remembered pictures of herself at that age. She recognized that girl from the video but not the video itself.

She remembered living in Jacksonville, the humid summers and the winters that barely qualified as cold, at least by the standards of the Northeast she now called home. She remembered her parents, her father cold and distant except when his anger flared brightly and frightened her. Her mother was vacant, going through the motions blankly. At least until Rachel was born. They both doted on Rachel; she was a cheery child that encouraged doting. Looking back, she wondered if they had known about the experiments. If they had given her up, or simply given up on her once she came back changed. She must have been changed, darker, quieter, harder to hold.

Her anger at Walter flared again. She generally thought he was not the same man as he was before, but sometimes she wondered. He still relished his experiments; he seemed gleeful in the face of curious tragedy when true humanity would recoil. She narrowed her eyes at him but he did not notice her attention. She remembered how she chose to sacrifice a suspect to save Walter. The suspect who caused the building disaster, which led to Jacksonville and Cortexiphan and this unpleasant trek down memory lane. She shook her head slightly, stopping that thought. She saved Walter _for Peter_, for the sound of the plea in his voice. She turned away again, choosing to calm herself by staring out the window.

"Livia, you look a thousand miles away." The gruff sound of his voice interrupted her calming exercise. She turned to see his face, scruffy and kind and concerned. The interaction was not entirely unwelcome but she could not begin to unbolt those doors. Not now anyway.

"A thousand sixteen, actually", she replied, a sad half smile gracing her tired features.

He nodded and returned the smile, also sad but understanding, knowing enough to let her go.

* * *

A/N So this is short, but I do plan to continue... And it is my first Fringe fic, so please leave me feedback about my characterization. Thanks!


	2. Social Call

Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish…

A/N: Another brief chapter but there is more to follow, I promise. Thanks much to all readers and especially reviewers and a special shout out to partymccarty (if she figures this out)…

"All things are bound together. All things connect." Chief Seattle

They all felt the ground shake and were tense, waiting for news. He heard Broyles phone ring and knew it would be her and he was right. From Boyles' side of the conversation, he concluded the building was gone, the people safe, and there was the small matter of debriefing all the witnesses to work out… He did not envy that job. He and Walter continued quantifying some of the data until that was mostly concluded, then they were allowed to go home. Well, if he were being fully honest, they continued until Walter became petulant and irritable (a side effect of fatigue and hunger) and they were relived of further obligation.

He knew she'd call when she was able. She would claim to want to wrap things up, but really she would need to process everything that happened. The effects of Cortexiphan, whatever she saw, the almost kiss that sparked her fear… He had successfully avoided thinking about that in the intensity of the moment, but now it loomed. They could probably just move forward, not talking about it. It had worked in the past, when she first traveled to the other side and returned with the shakes, when she almost shot him, when he almost killed her to let a virus escape. Looking back, not talking was a particular skill of they shared.

For knowing so little, he read her well. He could see that she was loathe to trust and open up to others, that she was exceptionally self-reliant, that she was self-sacrificing to a fault. He felt a twinge of guilt for manipulating Rachel when they got together once. It was easy to get her talking about her sister without realizing she was doing it. He gathered some childhood history then and learned she had always been this way, at least as far as her sister could tell. It made more sense now, knowing what his father had done. He felt shame by association, doubled by his father's lack thereof. Post-Walter and William Bell, Olivia would not be a happy, easygoing child. She would be different, disconnected, mistrusting. He could relate. Perhaps that is why he could recognize it in her, as well as the need for distance. He just took his space on the road.

He was expecting the call, later that evening, but the content of the call was a surprise. She invited him out for drinks. He smiled. A social encounter was clearly out of the norm and was thus significant. He laughed at the adolescent excitement he felt. This might end well after all.


	3. Mental Math

**Disclaimer**: Nope, still don't own them…

**A/N**: A more substantial chapter this time… Thanks to all the readers and special thanks to Skate-815 and Mochi-Girl for reviewing. I appreciate the feedback. Oh, and I love seeing what people think Olivia would be drinking… I chose cognac because I used to drink it and can describe it, lol… Never drank Jack or Scotch…

_"I shut my eyes in order to see." Paul Gauguin_

She checked her reflection in the review mirror before getting out of the car and laughed at her uncharacteristic preening. She felt almost giddy, which she would blame on the intensity of the day and exhaustion, though she knew it was more than that. She hesitated at the door, relishing the moment. It was not often she felt good, open to the possibilities, hopeful even. Then the door opened and everything changed.

She smiled at Peter and her smile froze in place. She knew how to make her face give nothing away, but she knew that would not last long with him. He could read her better than anyone. He walked away to get his coat and Walter approached, beseeching her to keep the secret.

Smile still frozen, she hastily did the mental math. _Peter is from the alternate universe. Walter knows because he took him. He had to know that if this worked, I'd find out. _As Peter bounded down the stairs, her anger flared again, burning hot, but her smile was still locked in place. He suggested they walk and she looked away, turning toward the door.

The brisk air helped clear her mind and the mental math continued. _This didn't happen recently. This is why Peter can't remember his childhood. This is the only Peter I've ever known. How did the universe balance when it happened?_

She glanced at him them, small talk forgotten, and the glimmer distracted her. This changed everything but nothing all the same. This was Peter, the only Peter she had ever known. She suddenly understood his detachment, his constant movement, his lack of belonging. She understood feeling like a misfit. She understood him, wherever he was from.

* * *

When he came down the stairs, he could tell that Walter had spoken to her. Her expression was blank, her smile empty. He knew if he asked, she would say nothing. But she still chose to come out with him. He was quiet as they walked, giving her time to think. Her expression was intense, focused away from him, and then she turned and smiled. A real smile, her eyes dancing over his face. In silence, she looped her arm though his, turned, and resumed walking.

"You come to a conclusion then?" he said, glancing at her.

"Yes. I did. For the most part, anyway." She grinned back at him. _The secret would keep that long_, she thought, her breath catching anyway. The hope barely outpaced the fear.

* * *

The food was good, the drinks were better, and the company was comfortable and familiar. She knew this pattern, this banter, the way of interacting they had. He did not broach any topic that would be considered sensitive and she appreciated that. It was light and freeing and easy. She figured out that she could concentrate and make the glimmering diminish substantially. After a few drinks, once she really relaxed, it went away almost entirely. In the back of her mind, dread loomed like a massed thundercloud on the horizon but she concentrated on not seeing that either. Trepidation about relationships, lingering grief about John, this secret, the coming war, all these were pushed aside for now. Now was the fiery burn of the cognac, tasting woodsy and golden brown. Now was the scent of Peter Bishop and his accidental touch, as he brushed up next to her at the crowded bar.

She bumped his shoulder and asked him to tell her a joke. He looked perplexed for a brief pause and started in. "So a duck walks into a bar, goes up to the bartender and says 'Got any grapes?'…"

She savored the simple moment. The light in his eyes (not glimmer, just twinkle), the smirk, the way he ran his words together as he slurred through "_Gotanygrapes?"._

She leaned into him, laughing, then surprised herself by not pulling away.

"What a surprisingly clean joke… I am not sure what I expected, but I don't think that was it."

He quirked a smile and his eyes grew subtly warmer as they narrowed at her. "Was that a challenge, Agent Dunham?"

"Well, Mr. Bishop, perhaps it was," she replied huskily.

He only nodded in reply, holding his eyes on hers while he considered other jokes in his repertoire. He flashed to the _Agent Dunham_ he knows from cases, businesslike and driven, and realized that _she_ would never be caught flirting with him. This Olivia was relaxed, initiating physical contact, teasing him for not telling off-color jokes. Distracted by her smile, the warmth of her body leaning into his, he commented on the difference and knew the words were a mistake almost as soon as he said them.

"You are really different tonight Olivia. It's a nice change to see you smile."

She could not stop her face from falling. Too much alcohol to hide her emotions effectively. Her thoughts raced around her life haphazardly, highlighting times she was isolated or alone, too focused for fun. Taking care of Rachel as a child, hiding from her stepfather, tackling school with a passion borne of fear, holding her own in the Academy. Losing John. Never being free enough to relish their relationship before he died. Telling Peter that Rachel was the fun one. How she felt when he called for _her_.

"I always said that Rachel was the fun one," she replied, twirling her now-empty glass.

"Olivia, that's not what I meant," he started, speaking with a soft intensity. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Did you go out with her?" She asked the question without thinking and bit her lip once she realized what she was saying.

Peter tried not to smile, noting her jealousy and happy to steer the topic to lighter ground. "We went out for drinks once or twice. It was no big deal."

She paused, considering. Considering asking what he saw in Rachel, what he sees in her. Considered asking for another round, knowing she was well-past her limit to drive safely, knowing it meant he would be in charge of getting her safely to sleep. Somewhere. She wanted to relax and just let things be.

She looked up at him hesitantly, and smiled, shaking the empty glass. He nodded and waved at the bartender. He smiled at her and she knew that he knew. Sometimes this is what it took to get her to let go. Hopefully it would not take so much next time or she would end up a full blown alcoholic. She chuckled at the thought.

"Something funny?"

She shook her head slightly and replied, "No, nothing… Tell me another joke, Peter."

He grinned. "So an FBI agent, a consultant and a cow walk into a bar…"

* * *

They stumbled out of the bar at a quarter to two. Peter watched her drinking and had decided long before to abandon the idea of being designated driver. It would have been stranger to have him crash at her place than her stay at his and she would never have allowed him to drive her SUV back. And knowing her, she had thought all this through anyway. She leaned into him as they ambled back to his house, comfortable in silence but neither knowing what to say.

As they approached his front step, he casually offered his bed to her. "You take the bed, I'll take the couch."

"Peter…" she started, not sure what she was going to say.

"Nope, no protests," he declared. "You are not fit to drive, nor am I, and Walter does sometimes like the clothing-free lifestyle. You should not be subjected to that."

She laughed, protest effectively squelched by the image, before melancholy started to seep in. Walter.

* * *

Astrid regarded them with amusement as they swayed in the doorway. Walter had gone to sleep a few hours earlier and she had dozed off herself. She excused herself quickly and left with a small smile gracing her features.

Peter walked her upstairs and offered her one of his shirts to sleep in. As he turned to leave, he heard her tugging off her sweater and he paused in the doorway, indulging his imagination.

"Peter," she whispered, voice lifting in slight question. "Do you ever wonder how things would have been, for us, if not for Walter? If… If he hadn't…"

He was surprised by her quiet voice, the sadness it hinted as her voice trailed off. Back still turned, he heard her kick off her shoes and he was momentarily distracted by the sound of a zipper. He sighed.

He exhaled her name, shaking off the vivid images he'd conjured. "'Livia… I wonder about that all the time." He heard the sounds of sheets rustling and he turned to see her sliding into bed. He was torn, drawn in by her vulnerable honesty, distracted by the smooth white skin of her thigh. The alcohol made it dangerously hard to focus.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his bed, and delicately smoothed her hair. "I wonder all the time," he said enigmatically. He let his hand follow the curve of her face and she turned into it, eyes closing, sighing softly. He felt the internal conflict of conscience struggling against desire and took a steadying breath.

"Goodnight, Olivia" he murmured, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on her temple. He was gone before she could react, shutting the door before he could persuade himself to enjoy the alcohol-induced disinhibition.

She was left alone in his bed, stilled by a lifetime of self-restraint, knowing he would not act if she did not act herself. _Move. Act. Reach out. Let go. _She held these thoughts close as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.


	4. 3 AM

**Dislaimer: **I own nothing but my own ideas… Anything you recognize is not mine.

_Poem to be read at 3 A.M._

_Excepting the diner_

_On the outskirts._

_The town of Ladora_

_At 3 a.m._

_Was dark but_

_For my headlights_

_And up in_

_One second-story room_

_A single light_

_Where someone_

_Was sick or_

_Perhaps reading_

_As I drove past_

_At seventy_

_Not thinking._

_This poem_

_Is for whoever_

_Had the light on_

_-- __Donald Justice_

The first night after Cortexiphan was deep and dreamless, in the way that alcohol-induced sleep can be. She spent that night in Peter Bishop's bed, in the sheets that smelled of him. Perhaps that kept the nightmares at bay.

The next night, alone in her bed, she dreamed. It was familiar at first; the dark woods, the frightened child, the whistling wind, something in the woods beyond. It soon changed, in the abrupt and immediate way that dreams have. She and little Olive, still in her arms, were standing over John Scott on the side of the road where she last saw him alive. He was injured but breathing and was calling her name.

She knelt beside him and Olive was gone, her screams echoing in the dark. She woke then, still seeing John dying and hearing Olive cry. Her breathing labored, tears on her cheeks, she sat up in the dark and waited for the terror to subside. Giving up on sleep, she made coffee that she drank in the dark, waiting for dawn to arrive.

The third night, she dreamed again. This time it was a place that was both familiar and unknown, being flooded with black water. With the water rushing down the street, cars sliding away and waves lapping at the windows of nearby homes, she found a small boat and climbed inside. She heard crying and knew it was Olive. She searched for her in the darkness and found her clinging to a tree. She abandoned the boat despite her terror, not knowing what is underneath the black water, and swam to reach Olive.

Caught again in the current, they were swept along toward a house. Olivia seized the fence and pulled them to a stop, dragging them both up to this house, lit from the inside with a warm light. She entered and wandered to the kitchen, Olive clutched in her arms. She saw a large white bear in the sink, splitting its fur like a seam down its back. Revealed in the yellowed light was a striking horse, covered in blood and rearing up, sloughing off the remnants of the bear. Olive screamed and she awoke, sweating and gasping. 2:45 A.M.

The next day she was dragging. She did drift back off to sleep but not soon enough to get any rest. She was pretty sure Peter had noticed but he refrained from commenting, bringing her an extra cup of coffee instead. Throughout the day, she toyed with ideas to prevent dreaming. She considered telling Walter about the dream in the hopes he could stop them, but her anger flared again and she nixed the thought. She considered drinking, since that apparently worked the other day, but decided that drinking nightly would not be the best of plans. Simply not sleeping was not practical. And logically, she decided that she could not keep dreaming like this indefinitely.

Yet she lingered at the lab. Long after Astrid went home, after Walter stopped doing anything remotely like work, after Peter stopped pretending not to see how she was faring. She caught him looking, kindness etched in his eyes, but the glimmering distracted her and she was too fatigued to concentrate on making it stop. She drifted from confiding in him to a quiet sort of dread that reminded her of all the bad things yet to come. She shook her head, gathered up her stuff, and silently left the lab.

That night she dreamed. She was in the little boat again, floating in the black water far from the lights of the town that was flooded. Olive was curled in the bow, soaking wet and silently crying. In the darkness, she could see a large ship nearby and knew she had to get to that ship, to get on it; it was their only hope of rescue. There were no paddles, no oars but the thought of swimming terrified her. She knew it was dangerous, that the black water concealed something that would drag her under, but she knew she had no other choice. She grabbed the girl and jumped in before she could change her mind. The icy water splashed up around her and Olive was gone. Olivia heard the child's screaming echoing all around her but she was nowhere to be found. She swam to be ship instead, knowing she was leaving part of herself to die.

She was still shaking after 10 minutes, rattled and unsure. She felt bereft, as if she had lost some vital part of herself. Lost, sacrificed, abandoned, she was not sure which or by whom, honestly. _That frightened child, that child that could have been carefree. Should have been... _She tried to focus on the bigger picture. Because of Walter, because of the experiments, she was now able to make a real difference in the war. But because of Walter stealing the other Peter, he may have started the war. She groaned. The bigger picture still brought her around to that thought. There was no escaping it. And she was so tired. The nightmares, the lack of sleep, the stress of this secret were so draining.

She bolted up and started getting dressed. She was not going back to sleep tonight, at least not here. Not alone with these thoughts. The movement felt good, productive, even if it didn't amount to much in the end. She tried not to give it any thought, just let herself act. She found herself in the SUV, driving to Peter's, in less than 15 minutes. Impulsively, she had thrown some clothes into a bag, her toothbrush and deodorant, clean underwear just in case. She made a concerted effort not to think about that part. _Just move. Act. Do something._

She pulled up outside his place a few minutes after 3 am and parked on the street. She was relieved to see his bedroom light on and there she sat, watching that window for several minutes. If she was being honest with herself, she would acknowledge how adolescent-girl-with-a-crush this behavior was. Instead, she just sat, watching, not thinking, allowing herself to relax. When the chill of the night started to get to her, she got out her phone and called him.

"Don't tell me we've won another vacation," he quipped, sounding more serious than the words would imply. She wondered briefly what made him so somber at this hour, what kept him awake.

"No, it's not another case," she replied, not offering more just yet.

"Then what's going on?" he asked, concerned. "It must be pretty big to interrupt my beauty sleep," he teased.

"You weren't sleeping."

"And how would you know that?"

"Your light was on."

He didn't respond, but she saw movement in his room. He parted the curtains, looking outside.

"Come on in," he said, ending the call.

She vacillated for a moment, looking at the bag. Bring the bag, leave the bag… _Just go._ She grabbed the bag and left the vehicle, striding purposefully to the door. He met her there, eyed the bag, but said nothing as she entered. She dropped the bag by the couch and sat down.

"I couldn't sleep." She spoke softly, matter-of-factly, not quite making eye contact.

He nodded. "Want something to drink? Maybe some hot chocolate?"

"That sounds good." She stayed there while he went into the kitchen. She sank deeper into the couch, pausing just a moment before slipping off her shoes and tucking her legs underneath her.

When he returned, he sat the mug in front of her in comfortable silence. He noted the shoes without comment and sat down at the other end of the couch. She was grateful for the drink, since it gave her a focal point. She picked it up and stared for a moment before starting to speak.

"I've been having nightmares," she said hesitantly.

"How bad?" he asked softly.

"Bad. They linger," she replied, sighing, still staring at the mug. "Pretty much every night since I had the Cortexiphan."

He knew better than to comment about her willingness to sacrifice herself for the cause, but he picked up on something she implied but did not say. "Not every night?"

"No. Not the first night." _The night we went out, the night I slept here. _"I'm just so tired…" She trailed off, raising her eyes to meet his. The glimmer bloomed, a sign of her apprehension, then faded out as she held his penetrating gaze. She knew he understood everything she wasn't saying.

"Then stay here."

She simply nodded, offering no resistance to his suggestion. It was as close to reaching out as she could get. He graced her with a gentle smile and extended his hand, seeking hers.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low and rough. She almost held back, said she would just take the couch, but _clothing-free lifestyle_ flashed through her mind and she smiled, reaching for him. "Don't forget your bag."

"You noticed that," she remarked, glancing at him.

"Sweetheart, I notice everything," he quipped, giving her a rakish smile as he led her upstairs.

His casual tone and easy acceptance of her sudden appearance set her at ease and she found herself wondering what else he noticed about her_…_. She almost asked, but they reached his room and the lights were still on. Her fatigued thoughts drifted again and she wondered again what had him up at 3 AM. She dropped the bag onto his bed and opened it, pulling out her nightshirt. He turned to leave but the sound of her voice drew him back in.

"So what kept you up?"

"Same as you… Only different in the details, I'm sure." He met her gaze unabashedly; she had seen him far worse off than being haunted by nightmares.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her words laden with meaning that he could not quite decipher.

"About what?"

"Walter."

His eyes narrowed at that word, trying to figure out exactly what she meant. How she was treated as a child, how Walter experimented on them both, how she had bluffed and blackmailed him into guardianship of him… As he ran through the many possibilities, he noticed her retreating into the sadness that brought her to him in the middle of the night. She would not talk anymore tonight.

He nodded, accepting the change in mood. "I'll let you get some rest."

She looked up at him, trying to find a way to say 'don't go' without saying it. "It's kind of chilly in here," she stammered. "You wouldn't have any extra blankets lying around?"

He just smiled, acknowledging her request, and went to search for one. It gave her enough time to get changed and slide into his bed. She quirked a smile when she realized he was effectively tucking her in, as he returned to drape the blanket across her.

"Peter," she said, engaging him once again, "tell me about your childhood. What you remember." She paused momentarily. "And turn out the light."

He did as requested, moving to lean against the doorway, when she moved to the far side of the bed. He cocked his head and she simply inclined hers to offer him space. He ambled over, leaned back against the headboard, and pulled the blanket over his legs.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything."

So he told her stories, about things he remembered and things he might only have dreamed. He spoke softly, growing quieter with longer pauses, until her breathing evened out into the restful pattern of sleep. Tempted to stay, he pulled himself up and out of bed, giving in to the urge to kiss her cheek before he went.

"Sweet dreams, Olivia."


	5. Afternoon Caffeine

**Disclaimer**: If only they were mine…

**A/N**: Thanks again to all those who have read, reviewed, alerted, or favorited this story. That *really* makes my day.

* * *

"_He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." Jim Elliot_

She was sitting at her desk two days later when she caught herself drifting. There had been no new cases and she was stuck reviewing old files and completing paperwork, but she was having difficulty focusing on the work. She felt tense, a building agitation that made the quiet and stillness of this work unbearable for long. She remembered how Charlie would break up days like this and would keep her focused, when the stillness got to her.

Thoughts of Charlie brought a fresh wave of sadness. Charlie, John, possibly Peter once he knows the truth. She sighed. How could she not have seen? How did she miss the signs? The frustration peaked and she stood up, gathering up her case files and grabbing her keys. Nothing she could do here that she could not do elsewhere with fresh coffee.

The wind outside was bracing and she drew her coat close. She slid into the SUV and started it up, pulling out into traffic with no particular destination in mind. Her thoughts drifted back to Charlie, how she missed the signs that he was gone, replaced with an imposter. She had not noticed the subtle changes in his behavior, though to her credit she at least acknowledged that his behavior was within fairly normal limits. Except when he tried to kill her. Feelings of failure rose again and she bit them back with effort.

It was too late to stop the mental leap, however. Thoughts of John washed over her in a wave of disorienting emotion. She tried to put her finger on it, to give the feelings a name, but did not quite succeed. There was the echo of grief, a twinge of loneliness that she tried not to admit was there, persistent self-doubt about her ability to read people. There was the ache of betrayal, but something more too. She sighed. She still believed that John was good at heart, that he truly loved her, that something must have happened. Like something happened to Charlie, something she missed. Like she missed the signs Peter was not from this universe…

Peter. Looking back, she sees so much she overlooked as part of Walter's madness. The missing memories of childhood, the nightmares, his ability to fire the weapon from the other side. But still, she felt she read him correctly. He had demonstrated his dedication more than once. His dedication was directed at least as much to her as it was to the work, maybe more.

She spied a Starbucks and pulled into the lot. Ubiquitous but convenient, she thought. She ordered a large latte and sat inside, giving herself time to think. She let her mind wander and found herself thinking about Peter again. She felt herself drawn to the commonalities they shared as a result of Walter, both from past events and recent history. The disconnection, the distance from others, the depth of emotion under the surface that so few got to see.

She never really had time for relationships. In school, she was too focused on grades; in the Academy, she had to hold her own or risk not being taken seriously. Now, the Pattern is all consuming. She had a few significant relationships but mostly they fizzled because no-one understood her, her drive. Reluctance to trust was most often seen as disinterest, and she allowed that, if that is what they chose to believe. John was different though. He saw through her, took the lead when she wouldn't, gave her space when she needed it, was as driven as her. She shook her head, swirling her drink in its cup. Something still eluded her about John.

But Peter, Peter was different. If she was reading him accurately, he would force her to make a choice, to take a step forward or back. He was not driven by any means and would probably encourage her to relax a little. _Try to encourage_, she corrected, smiling to herself. She reached the end of her latte with surprise. She had been lost in thought, musing about men, long enough to finish her drink. She chuckled softly about this behavior, then sobered quickly. She was interested in him, she decided. But he still did not know what Walter did. Nothing else could happen until that was resolved.

She got out her phone and dialed the lab. Astrid answered, updating her on Walter's search through old records (both paper and vinyl) and his current obsession with finding the perfect hot and sour soup. She asked to speak to Walter and Astrid complied, bringing him to the phone. Olivia heard Astrid let him know who was calling before he started speaking.

"Agent Dunham! How nice to speak with you. Did you want to talk to Peter? He isn't here right now… " His voice was exceptionally cheery and it made her wonder if he truly understood the consequences of the actions he has taken throughout his life. She reminded herself that he had had parts of his brain removed, so whatever he was before, he was no longer. She still struggled with the anger.

"No, Walter, I'm not calling for Peter. I need to talk to you."

"Well, certainly, Agent Dunham. How can I be of assistance?"

"Walter, you need to tell Peter the truth. And soon."

"Oh, no, no, please, Agent Dunham, I can't…" His voice grew quiet, pleading. She found herself lacking sympathy, though she too feared Peter's reaction. She tried to focus on the shared trepidation and softened her tone.

"Walter, he has to know the truth. Keeping it from him longer will only make it worse. I will tell him if you don't, but it will mean something to him if it comes from you." She paused, listening to the soft sounds of his distress before she continued. "The sooner, the better. We don't want to get caught up in another case."

She waited, but he only mumbled his assent. "I'll be by tomorrow, Walter. I will help you, if you want."

He was noncommittal but aware of her intentions, and that was likely the best she could ask from him. She ended the call, staring out the window of the Starbucks, into the darkening afternoon sky. She felt purposeful again, focused on a goal, able to move forward again, able to sit still. Time to get back to work.


	6. Lies My Parents Told Me

**Disclaimer**: Only playing with them… I'll put them back, I promise.

* * *

"_I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies." Pietro Aretino_

"No." His stern voice was a whip crack in the quiet of the lab. He looked at each of them in turn, pointing his finger as he started backing away, shaking his head slightly. She started to move toward him, opened her mouth as if to speak, and was quickly admonished. "No."

The silence followed him out into the cold. The icy air bit his checks but did little to cool the rage he held so tightly. He wasn't ready to see beyond the anger, to see what hovered below it. He made it halfway to the parking lot before remembering that Olivia had picked him up that morning, driven the three of them to the lab. He cursed in frustration and changed direction.

His pace was brisk as he found the stairs to the T station, hurried to catch the next train. He looked at the map once inside, calculated the route to the airport, tried to dismiss the idea of taking off. He heard the grind of a coming train and turned away from the map. Five stops to downtown, change to the Orange Line, one stop to the Blue Line, three stops to the airport. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Last stop on that line would be Wonderland. _Whose fucking joke was that_, he wondered darkly.

He took a seat on the train, despite the urge to pace, and relaxed a little once the movement started. Movement always relaxed him. He focused on the sights outside his window, even when all he saw was the darkness of the tunnel he was in. He had gone two stops before he allowed himself to revisit the scene in the lab.

Hindsight is 20/20 and much of the morning snapped into place in retrospect. The looks Olivia gave him, Walter seeming jittery and actually acting clingy. Even Astrid seemed to know something was up. He briefly mused that he had been still too long, gotten too comfortable, to overlook such warning signs. The word _domesticated_ crossed his mind, along with a rush of bitterness.

Walter had not wanted to tell him, that much was obvious if for no other reason than he had never told him. Olivia had to be the impetus. The thought that Olivia knew unsettled him somehow, as if he was laid bare in front of her. He'd certainly been _laid bare_ before, had imagined being laid bare in front of _her_, but not like this. He felt vulnerable, exposed, unsure of himself. She knew more about him in that moment than he did. His anger flared again.

He was jolted from his thoughts as the train stuttered to a stop at Mass General. He saw a woman enter the train holding her son's hand and he was rocked by a dizzying wave of dissonance. It struck like a blow: His mother knew. He had been so focused on untangling Walter's lies, ignoring his pitiful pleas, that he overlooked his mother's complicit agreement to this whole mess. Was this what she meant, when she told him to be a better man than his father? Don't kidnap kids from other universes? He huffed as the train shuddered to another stop. Downtown station.

He jumped up and left the train, heading to the Orange Line, still churning with emotion. Should he take this as a compliment, to be so loved that parents would consider stealing a replacement? That they would play God for him, the other him, the dead son they lost? Was his mother even aware of Walter's plans or was she surprised to find a doppelganger in her son's bed one morning? To get answers to those questions, he would have to talk to Walter and then trust his responses. He shook his head, realizing he would probably never know. But Olivia wanted him to know, she had forced the issue with Walter. She must have known since the Cortexiphan, and Walter must have known that if it worked, this would be the outcome.

The train was waiting and he hurried toward it, standing once he got inside. One stop, transfer to the Blue Line, sitting once again. Three stops to make a decision.

He glanced around the train, observing other passengers. Some were reading, some talking, others checking their cells. A woman lost in thought, looking sad. He wondered how he looked. He wondered how he looked to _her_. Two stops left.

Thoughts of Olivia pulled at him like gravity. He didn't want to admit he'd stay for her. He didn't want to stay and have to come to terms with _this_, with _Walter_. Running would be so much easier, disappearing into the ether like so much smoke, burned up, dissipated. That's how he felt, the self he'd imagined up in smoke. He shook his head, frowning to himself. So much made sense now. His mother's admonitions, much of Walter's strange behavior, his lost childhood. His nightmares suddenly took on new life as a haunting memory.

The PA announced Airport Station. He remained seated, exhaling heavily. _Let's see what's waiting in Wonderland._

He relaxed a little, settling into the decision. He comforted his inner nomad by saying he could always leave later. He didn't want to leave her, he didn't want to leave the work that had grown to be so meaningful. A very child-like part of him didn't want to leave Walter, to end the tenuous connection he'd made with his almost-father that was now filling him with doubt. Idly, he wondered how long they would let him be before someone tried to track him down…

He stepped off the train at Wonderland Station and walked out into the midday sun, a rarity for a New England winter. He was surprised to see it was not quite noon. For all he'd been through this morning, it felt much later. It was still cold and the wind was whipping around him. He scoped out the area, noted the signs; Revere Beach to his right, Wonderland Greyhound Park in the distance to his left. _Fitting,_ he thought. At least they would have a bar.

First Turn Pub was the bar's name and it was full of gambling alcoholics. For a moment, he felt like he fit right in, but after a few minutes he knew he didn't anymore. He could pretend though, and he did for at least 3 drinks before reality started to settle in. He would have to face them sooner or later. Hell, he did not have any extra clothes with him, no car, just his cell. His still silent cell. He decided that he would not call, but he would answer if she did. He called it _salvaging his pride_.

Around the forth drink, he drifted to the thoughts of Walter's lost child. He wondered how the other Peter would have turned out, if he had lived. How would he measure up to _him_? He wondered what his life would have been like if he had never been taken. After another round, he realized that either way, living with either Walter would have likely ended badly for him. He laughed softly to himself. He felt disillusioned and lost, but at least sarcasm was familiar.

Later, as he tried to figure out what round he was on (six? seven?), he flashed on a song about counting rounds of Jose Cuervo… He laughed as he fumbled through the lyrics. His good humor did indicate he had forgotten what he came to forget after all. Until she called.

He took a moment to compose himself, before responding "Bishop".

"Peter," she said hesitantly. "How are you?"

"Isn't 'Where are you?' a better question?" he quipped, trying not to slur his words.

"They are both important," she acknowledged. "But right now I want to know how first, where second. If you'll tell me where," she added quietly.

He recognized the effort she was making. She was not a touchy-feely, let's-share type of person, but she was asking about him. He conceded.

"Sweetheart, I'm in Wonderland."

"What?"

"Wonderland Greyhound Park, end of Blue Line. First Turn Pub."

"Past the airport?"

"Yeah."

She read the subtext easily. "I'll be there in 45 minutes."

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**A/N**: Thanks again to all readers and especially to reviewers like Starlight77 and Shate-815 (you guys make my day). I really would appreciate some feedback on how the characters are coming across, if the feelings are being conveyed, if the reactions are fitting... Cookies to anyone who gets the reference in the title or can finish singing the song Peter flashes on…


	7. Next Stop Wonderland

**Disclaimer**: No inFringement intended…

**A/N**: Thanks to all readers and reviewers… And no, I have not seen the movie whose title I am borrowing for this chapter, but it seemed fitting anyway.

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"_I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is." Alan Watts_

He had his back to her when she arrived, noting her presence in mirror behind the bar. He waited as she looked around uncertainly, picking up on subtle cues he might not have noticed another day, one when he felt more secure in his surroundings. She had her hair down, looked exhausted, worried. She looked a little more human, a little less _Agent_. He caught her eye and waved.

"Care for a drink?" he asked. "I'm a little past my limit, myself," he added, smiling.

"Sure," she nodded. "Whatever you're drinking."

He waved the bartended back over, pointed as his empty glass, and held up two fingers. They sat in silence then, each waiting the other out. He had expected to feel exposed again, or angry, something other than comforted by her presence. He struggled to wrap his mind around the muddy mix of emotions. She began the conversation, breaking their silence, a first for her.

"You never told me how you were," she remarked.

"Currently? Well, let's see… Drunk. But before that? I am not sure I can even put it into words."

"Try…"

He narrowed his eyes at her. She was trying to get him to open up, drawing him out. "Let's be fair about this, shall we? If I answer your questions, I want you to answer to some of mine."

She nodded in agreement. "Sounds fair."

"When did you first know? And why didn't you tell me?" He could hear the edge in his voice and hoped it sufficiently covered the pain. He waited patiently as she looked away, preparing her response. He already knew the answer to the first question; he remembered her reaction to him that night, but needed to hear what happened from her perspective.

She met his eyes before responding, holding his gaze. "I first realized when you came to the door, when we were going out for drinks. You went to get your jacket and Walter begged me not to tell you. At first, I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure what to do. Then I decided that it didn't change anything."

"Didn't change anything?" he scoffed, raising his brows in disbelief.

"For you and Walter, yes. For the Pattern, the war? Maybe. Probably. But not for me, because you're the only Peter I've ever known."

He nodded, taking in her words. This was big, coming from her. He met her gaze, trying to focus his alcohol-soaked thoughts, when she spoke again.

"Let's go," she said softly.

In response, he caught the bartender's eye and gestured for the tab. He slid off the barstool, a little surprised to find himself swaying as he stood. He quirked a grin at this state of inebriation, and then she put her hand on his arm to steady him and it was all he could do not to sigh at her touch. _God, what a basket case…_ At least it looked like she had not noticed.

She maintained the touch all the way to the SUV, which was unexpected. At some point, he realized that it had gone from a steadying hand at his elbow to a simple touch, a point of contact. Once she started up the vehicle, though, he was struck by the reality of his situation. _What now?_ He was frozen with uncertainty for a moment, then catalogued his options. _Not back to Walter's, maybe a hotel… Still have no clothes. Ugh. _He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of her voice.

"I figured going back to Walter's is out of the question, at least for now. I already went by there and got some stuff for you. I didn't know if you were going to stick around, so I didn't requisition new lodging for you, but I guess we can figure that out later."

He turned to see his duffel bag on her back seat. He stifled a laugh at the thought of her selecting underwear for him. _Talk about laid bare…_ "You got clothes for me?"

"Yeah."

"Well, thanks."

It crossed his mind then that this much alcohol made controlling the emotions a little difficult, made sorting them out a true challenge. The mention of Walter stirred up anger and hurt; he was touched by her thoughtfulness, stung by her doubt (though it was certainly justified), and a little turned on by the thought of her in relation to his underwear. He sighed with the effort of containing it all, and let his eyes slide shut.

He woke to her touch, shaking his arm gently, and was surprised to find the SUV parked outside of her apartment. He noticed she looked a little nervous, unsure of herself, and the rarity of that was not lost on him.

"I know we didn't talk about it, but I figure that we can start to sort things out here."

He realized the confidence of her tone belied the intent of the words. This was actually a request. An invitation to share her space, for however short a time.

"Ok."

He had reached the world-is-spinning phase of drunkenness, so he held onto the bag and she held onto him until he was deposited onto her couch. She handed him a glass of water and sat beside him, apparently waiting for the questions to begin. When he finally spoke, it was not what he expected to say.

"Where's Walter?" He asked the question with a sigh, irritated at himself for wanting to know the answer.

"Astrid is with him. At your place." She did not question or comment on his concern, and he was grateful for that.

"So why today? What changed today? Because I know you instigated this morning's debacle."

"Yes, I did."

He waited, giving her a look. She sighed, shaking her head.

"I couldn't not tell you. I had to know what you'd do once you knew. It wasn't a matter of _if_, just _when_."

"So you figured I'd find out eventually and you had to know if I'd stick around or blow town?" She nodded. "Walter has never slipped, not once in my life, so I'm not buying the _if/when_ thing. What's different now?"

"I'm not Walter," she replied starkly. "I won't lie to you. Bluff, maybe," she smiled, "but not lie".

He felt a disorienting shift in perspective, like when you suddenly see the _other_ image in an optical illusion. She was talking about _betrayal_. She meant she would not betray him like Walter had, like his mother, like John Scott betrayed her. _Oh._ This changed everything.

"Ok then." His eyes flicked to her. "Any questions for me?"

"Actually, no. I think I have all the answers I need right now."

He cocked his head and gave her a grin. "Good. Got anything to eat in this place?"

"Not really," she replied, shaking her head and suppressing a smile. "But there's always Chinese take-out…"


	8. Lost Time

**Disclaimer**: Does anyone really take this seriously?

**A/N**: Thanks to all readers and reviewers… This project really started as a let's-get-them-kissing story and took on quite a life of its own…

* * *

"_C'est le temps que tu a perdu pour ta rose qui fait ta rose si importante." Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

He woke the next day on her couch, little cold and a little hung over. Maybe a lot hung over, but that was ok. This was the next step in _facing reality_ and he needed a little distraction from the intensity of it. The rest of the previous day had gone well, considering, and had included some take-out, a nap, more drinking, and surprisingly pleasant companionship. Not that it was surprising her companionship would be pleasant, but that he would be receiving the benefits of her companionship at all.

The one question he still had was left distinctly unasked: _What do you see when you look at me?_ Instead, he observed her behavior, looked for any signs she saw him differently. He decided that she did seem to see him differently but not in an otherworldly-glimmery way; rather she seemed to be flirting with him in a very subdued, Olivia Dunham way, and that was ok too.

She had shown him his case file, the one she had compiled over the last week. It had the medical records for the other Peter, his school photos and grades, the death certificate. There was a photo of the gravesite that he found chilling. It was his name after all, a face he recognized in the photos. He asked to be taken to the site to see for himself, and he agreed to meet Walter there. They needed to talk after all. _Hmmm. Scratch that. _He needed to talk to Walter. He wasn't sure he was interested in listening just yet.

Olivia drove him to the cemetery in soft silence. She had agreed to drop him off there and would wait for his call. Astrid would be bringing Walter in a little while, under the same arrangements. He glanced at Olivia as he exited the SUV and saw her gaze was warm, encouraging. He didn't doubt her intentions now. She really did want them to resolve this, as much as that was possible. And if it helped the working relationship, well that was just lagniappe.

He stared at the headstone in chilled stillness. _Perhaps meeting here was not a good idea,_ he thought idly, as the gravity of the situation assaulted his senses. He gave a cynical laugh. Really, this was the only place suited for this meeting. Here he could not forget, overlook, or excuse Walter's behavior, and Walter could not deny it.

He heard the car before he could see it and appreciated the advance notice. It gave him a last moment of peace before jumping into this mess with both feet. He took a deep breath and waited.

Walter exited the car with an unintelligible muttering, wringing his hands. He looked positively tormented and Peter was unsure how he felt about that. He silenced Walter with his hand before he started speaking.

"Walter, let me explain how this is going to go. I ask questions, you give me answers. I say what I have to say without any rationalizations or justifications from you. No excuses, understood?" His tone was harsh, sounding stronger that he felt inside.

Walter nodded, hands still wringing. "Yes, yes, I understand, son." He looked pitiful, vulnerable and weak. He didn't look like a kidnapper.

"Don't call me that," he growled. He bristled at the term, but some lost part of him yearned for it all the same. He didn't know what to do.

Walter looked at him and seemed to be on the verge of tears. "What would you like me to call you?"

Peter just shook his head. He couldn't answer that question, not now, not staring at the grave of the original Peter Bishop.

"Can you explain this, Walter," he said, gesturing to the grave. "Can you explain yourself?"

"Well," he started, "I am sure you are not talking about the science of it all." He continued after a frustrated nod from Peter. "You were sick and I could do nothing to stop it. I could not make you better. But I found that using the device I made, I could find _you_, take you home and pretend that nothing had ever happened. Your mother, of course, did not approve…"

"Just because something _can_ be done, does not mean it _should_, Walter."

"Yes, Peter, I know that now. Concerning this matter, I believe I knew it even then. I just wanted you back." His voice grew wistful, hands wringing again. "I don't know what to do now, Peter. I can't change the past… Well, perhaps I could now. There have been such advances!" He looked excited at the prospect until he was vehemently shut down by Peter.

"Oh God, Walter, no. No more experimenting with people's lives." He was firm and clear in his response, unwavering in tone, but he felt the conundrum sharply. Conceivably, Walter might be able to go back into the past, change things, make things end differently. What would it have been like, living in a world where he belonged? A world with a different Walter, whose amoral potential was not mitigated by grief? _Pretty sure that would not be a good thing. _He tried to stop the next thought but a whisper remained… _A world where he'd never have met Olivia._ He did not truly want to find out, and that, he realized, was a first step in accepting these entirely deranged circumstances. He felt oddly unbalanced for a moment.

"No more, Walter. No more lies, ever. That includes omission too," he said, punctuating that one with a glare. "God. I've had enough of this for now," he said, waving him off.

"Peter, what happens now?" His question was tentative, his demeanor unsettled.

"I don't know, Walter. Just give me some time." He walked away to call Olivia, feeling torn. _What a big fucking mess._ He wanted to shake Walter until he apologized, confessed, something, but the Walter he needed to hear that from was long gone. The Walter here now was a pale shadow of his former self, mad as a hatter most of the time, trying to make the best of what is before him. He thought back to something Olivia said to him, changed the wording to fit… _This Walter is the only father I can remember._ An echo of sadness rang in his chest. He now understood Olivia's reaction to learning about all this. This really didn't change anything.

***********

Olivia was sitting with Astrid at a gas station around the corner from the cemetery when she got the call.

"Olivia, can you and Astrid come get us? I think we're done here for now. Oh, and please apologize to Astrid for me… Walter's a little bit of a mess right now."

"Sure. We'll be right there." She terminated the call and turned to Astrid. "They're ready to go. Well, at least Peter is ready to go. Sounds like Walter's a mess."

"I figured as much. That's why I got these," she said brightly, waving a bag of Gummi Bears.

"Astrid, you are unrivaled… Hopefully things will get back to normal around here soon, or at least as close to normal as we ever get," she said, starting to move toward the SUV.

"You think things will work out?"

"Yes, I do…" she trailed off, as she got into the vehicle.

The ride back was short and she first saw Walter, pacing and shaking his head. He _was_ a mess. She wished Astrid luck. She found Peter at the edge of the cemetery, staring out into the distance. He turned when he heard her coming and his face was impassive, controlled. When he got in, though, she could feel energy rolling off him in frustrated waves. She wanted to find a way to engage him, to share this with him, but found herself tongue-tied and unsure. She had decided to act, to reach out and place a comforting hand on his arm, when her phone rang, a sharp sound in the quiet.

"Dunham." She nodded, "No sir, I'm not at the lab but I'm on my way there." A pause. "Are they both needed?" Another short pause. "Ok, I have Peter with me now. We'll be there in half an hour."

"We got a case?" His first words since the cemetery sounded tired, with just a hint of his usual sarcasm.

"Yes. At the airport, actually." She glanced at him, lips quirking into a small smile.

"Great," he said, drawing out the word and shaking his head with a smile. "The airport." He caught her looking at him again and spoke more seriously. "The answer is yes, Olivia."

Her only response was a perplexed expression and a tilt of her head, waiting for further explanation.

"The answer to your unasked questions. Can I handle this? Can I find a way to work with him?"

"Ok then. Let's go to the airport."

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**Final A/N**: Thanks to all who have followed this story to completion… I actually have in mind a casefic that will pick up here, so please check it out once I get it posted. And as always, reviews are love!


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